


as you pull on every ribbon

by troiing



Series: our mistakes they were bound to be made (but i promise you i'll keep you safe) [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/F, Prompt Fill, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24251818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: When Tissaia wakes, Yennefer is pacing the floor like an animal in a cage. She has been weeping. If Tissaia had any guilt left to feel, she would feel it.Or, after the Coup on Thanedd, Yennefer finds Tissaia. Response to the prompt: "kiss where it hurts, in the aftermath of a battle where one of them got injured." Emotional hurts count, right?
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: our mistakes they were bound to be made (but i promise you i'll keep you safe) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774828
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	as you pull on every ribbon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally ported over to ao3 from Tumblr as a chapter of "there is love in your body," but apparently i'm writing several pieces for this so it seemed best to make it a stand-alone piece. Sorry to hit you with the same work again.
> 
> Canon-divergence for Time of Contempt, post-Thanedd coup, some vague Yen/Tissaia and Yen/Geralt poly vibes maybe
> 
> **trigger warning for attempted suicide**

When Tissaia wakes, Yennefer is pacing the floor like an animal in a cage, waiting, watching. It takes a span of maybe a dozen seconds for her to notice in the dimly-lit room that Tissaia’s eyes are open.

“Tissaia!” she cries.

She has been weeping. If Tissaia had any guilt left to feel, she would feel it.

She is fading in and out, or she must be, because Yennefer moves too quickly from halfway across the room to the edge of her bed, and her hands are on Tissaia’s face before Tissaia sees the movement.

“How could you?”

“What are you doing here?” Tissaia asks, voice hoarse and throat dry, ignoring the question.

“I came to see you,” Yennefer explains, voice breaking. “I came to see you, and I found - Tissaia, I was almost too late.”

“Would that you had been five minutes later, my dear,” says Tissaia, exhausted. “Go back out, Yennefer. Forget me. Let me die.”

“How can you say that?” Yennefer asks, voice weak, near breaking. “How? How could you, when I need you?”

“You don’t _need_ me, girl. No one needs me. The Brotherhood is gone, by my own hand; I destroyed it, and now I am made a relic.”

Yennefer grits her teeth for just a moment, clenching her fists against Tissaia’s chest, the material of her gown caught up between her fingers. “I don’t need the Brotherhood!” she cries, in fury and pain, her voice almost a wail. “I need you!”

Tissaia fades for a moment, and in that moment, all is quiet but for Yennefer’s unsteady breaths. She lifts her hand then, weakly, trembling; touches Yennefer’s cheek. Yennefer takes her by the wrist, presses her lips into Tissaia’s palm. Shifts her grip, strokes the place she kissed with her thumb as she moves her caress to the bandages around Tissaia’s wrist, a sob breaking out of her.

“You don’t need me,” Tissaia repeats softly, wincing at the pressure of Yennefer’s lips on the still-fresh wound. “You have your Witcher. You have your Source.”

“And I love them,” Yennefer replies, voice fierce and desperate. “But it is not the same.”

“It is.”

“It _isn’t_. They are different loves, and you know it to be true. You are precious to me, Tissaia - no less so than either of them. And if you leave, if - ”

She breaks off, and the sobs come, wracking her body as she bends helplessly, head bowed.

“No,” Tissaia murmurs weakly, hand stretching out, touching Yennefer’s head, her shoulder, her heart. “No, no, no. Hush, love, hush. _Hush_ , my dear.” She speaks, murmurs susurrant sounds until her voice fades out and the only noise in the room is Yennefer’s quiet weeping.

She dozes until Yennefer stirs, moving into the bed beside her. She has no help to give, nor the will to give it, when Yennefer begins to rearrange her body; the strength is gone out of her with her spilled blood. But Yennefer is patient, positions her carefully, tenderly, drawing her in until their bodies are flush, no space between them: Yennefer, reclined in the pillows; Tissaia settled between her legs, head against Yennefer's breast, legs bent to the side; one of Yennefer's own legs bent over Tissaia's thighs, arms wrapped around her body. As if this careful cocoon could protect her, protect _them_ from everything without.

Perhaps it might.

Tissaia fades again, and again she is brought out of it by Yennefer’s voice - by one, broken syllable.

“Why?”

“Why,” Tissaia repeats wearily, blankly, mind searching.

“How could you?”

Sighing, expecting tears but finding her body has nothing to give in that respect either, Tissaia burrows weakly into Yennefer’s chest. “I am guilty. I am ashamed. I’m a murderer, a betrayer. Count the reasons.”

“You did what you thought was best. What seemed right, with the information you had.”

“Intentions are nothing in this world, Yennefer,” Tissaia says weakly, but with conviction. “The Brotherhood is ended. With it, peace, and order, and control.”

Suddenly furious, Yennefer looses one arm from around Tissaia’s body, clenching her fist and baring her wrist for Tissaia to see. “So you would regain control by killing yourself? What was it you told me when I gave myself these?”

“There is no _control_ for me, Yennefer,” she slurs. For a moment, there’s silence again as Tissaia slips away; she returns, murmurs, musing: “You’re what, eighty years old? Wizened, for an ordinary human. Still so young for a mage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know when the Brotherhood was founded?” she asks distantly, fingertips tracing Yennefer’s ribs with absent affection.

Yennefer shakes her head helplessly, pushing Tissaia’s hair back. “In the early, maybe mid-eighth century.”

“Good girl,” Tissaia breathes, drifting, forcing herself to focus. “I was born before its inception. By my initiation, the Chapter had been formed. The Brotherhood brought peace and order to the Continent for five hundred years, and I have watched it for every moment… from the early days of transition, bringing order out of disorder… onward. Until this. Until I erred. Five hundred years, Yennefer. One constant. Tell me you understand. _Please_.”

Yennefer exhales on a sob, and Tissaia stirs, shifting weakly; presses her lips to Yennefer’s chest, just over her heart. It barely passes for a kiss.

“I understand.” Burying her lips in Tissaia’s hair, Yennefer sniffs, drawing her arms all the more tightly around her. And then, decisively, she says: “When you’re strong enough, I’ll take you to Nenneke.”

It is a decision made.

Tissaia sleeps.


End file.
